Seasons Change
by Theolyn
Summary: Widowed Hermione seeks solace in the arms of an old friend. What else will she find there? AU. Now updated with Lemons!
1. Chapter 1

Seasons Change

Chapter One.

For the fifth time, Severus Snape re-read the scroll of parchment, a grim expression on his face. As a reply, it was plainly inadequate. Disgusted, he set it aside, and reached instead for his firewhiskey. He sipped it slowly and thoughtfully. Perhaps the burn would help him to focus.

He'd received Hermione's letter earlier that day. Though they'd not corresponded since his retirement, he'd recognized her penmanship at first glance. After all, she had been his colleague for almost 20 years. And though they'd maintained a purely professional relationship, beneath the surface had bloomed a rather deep mutual respect.

At length, the image he'd had of her overeager hand waiving desperately in the air faded, to be replaced by a picture of confident competence. She'd been the only colleague with whom he'd enjoyed occasional social conversation, and he'd been, he suspected, the only peer with whom she'd shared her more esoteric ideas. They'd become, somehow, over the long course of their acquaintance, if not strictly friends, then at least a close facsimile thereof.

Despite that, or perhaps because of it, he could not bring himself to answer her missive. What words could he employ that would convey the fierce sadness it had brought him? Not that he'd cared for Ronald Weasley, the mindless prat. But she had. And she'd fought like a banshee to save him.

He did not consider himself to be a compassionate man, and yet, he could imagine how simply devastating the entire experience would be for her. She did not deserve such pain. Almost unwillingly, he found himself wishing that Ronald Weasley had lived a far longer life.

Sighing, he vanished his lengthy reply and summoned another parchment. He closed his eyes, thinking of the woman he'd come to know, picturing her intelligent eyes before him. Perhaps simple words would be best. Severus Snape raised his quill.

Sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

The past eight months had been endless. When the immediate tasks of the funeral were over, the children had returned to their own families, friends had returned to their own lives, and time had slowed to a crawl. A painful, endless crawl. After what seemed like years of fighting there was suddenly no nursing to be done, no elusive cure to find, no spirits to keep high.

Keep busy, they'd said. And she had. She'd continued her work, of course, hoping someday to find the cure that would save others like him. But the work had lost its urgency, just as the world around her had lost its color. She could keep herself as busy as an auror at a revel, and it wouldn't change the fact that Ronald was dead, gone on without her, to whatever was beyond the blasted King's Cross station.

Hermione shook her head at herself. Gods, she was pathetic. Wallowing around in her vat of self-pity. But, damn it, she really missed him. Not the cranky, petulant childishness to which his illness had reduced him, although she'd take that version of him if it were offered to her. But rather, she missed the goofy companion of her childhood, the surprising generosity of their early marriage, the deep companionship of their remaining years. She missed her friend. She missed her husband. She'd been counting on their having a lifetime together, and now, quite obviously, that was not to be.

Of late, what seemed to be bothering her most was that she missed the sex. That was, she supposed, progress of a sort. After all, she hadn't minded her involuntary celibacy at first. Nothing like crying 20 hours a day to kill the sex drive. But over the last month, that part of her seemed to be returning to life. She found the whole thing rather…inconvenient.

She'd done her best to take care of the problem herself. But while bringing herself to orgasm took the edge off her desires, it did nothing to address her skin-hunger. She craved human contact, flesh on flesh, the smell of man on her skin. She wanted, just for a moment, to feel that alive again.

Though she was no longer so nubile as she'd been, Hermione knew she'd have no problem picking up a Wizard for the evening. Men were easy that way. Add to that the fact that she was still revered as a hero, and was well known to be a widow, and hardly a week passed that some younger wizard didn't make his availability abundantly clear.

Hermione reached out, retrieved the parchment from her desk. She read it for the hundredth time. Was it wrong of her to want a little affection with her sex? Was it selfish to want to slake her thirst in arms she trusted? To want to wake up with someone who wouldn't begrudge her a fault or two?

She stared at the spidery crawl of words. Of all the condolences she'd received, it was this one she'd kept like a talisman. It wasn't pretty. It didn't smell like flowers, or play a dirge, or project an image of Ronald. It was as austere as its writer, but that made it somehow deeper than the others. It said only this:

_Hermione,_

_I find, somehow, that I have no words for you. If you have need of me, know that I am at your disposal._

_Severus_

Hermione laughed; the sound echoed strangely through her empty home. Oh, she had need of him, alright. But how would her old friend handle her interpretation of his offer?

Hermione Weasley, heroine of Voldemort's last battle was in no way a coward. How would Snape react? It was high time that she find out.

End Chapter One

AN: Hello everyone! Welcome to the new story. After a brief foray into GW/HG , I'm back on home territory. I've been spending a lot of time recently contemplating the seasons of life, and how love plays out in different stages…and so I've chosen to make Hermione the mother of grown children, which makes Severus…older than that. We know that wizards age at a slower rate than muggles, so I'll allow each of you to set their physical age-equivalency however you wish. Just because I find myself gravitating to gray hair these days, no reason you have to!

Cheers!

Theolyln


	2. Expectation

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Severus apparated to the Rose and Crown a full ten minutes before 3pm. If Hermione's habits proved unchanged, she would arrive precisely on time. He wished to be seated by then so he could observe her arrival.

She'd chosen this place, he suspected, for his benefit. It was not the light, airy teahouse that she frequented, but rather a somber and discrete establishment. Its clientele was entirely muggle, rendering it a perfect location to avoid any magical recognition. The staff were efficient and attentive, and he was shortly seated at a table with a good view of the front door.

She entered, dressed entirely in black. Even in her widow's weeds, she was, he thought, a handsome woman. As the flush of her youth had faded, her features had become more prominent, lending her an aristocratic air. It was enough to make one wonder what pureblood dalliance had lent material to her genetic pool.

He noted with satisfaction that unlike most women her age, she did not employ any glamours to appear younger. Her fatigue, her grief, her tension were visible on her face, but so was her pride and fortitude. It made her visage riveting. He was unsurprised to note that many of the men in the room had noticed her arrival. She was a woman of consequence, and it showed.

Hermione saw him the moment she walked in the door. He was unchanged. Same bold features. Same long lean body. Same air of quiet intensity. Though he'd dressed appropriately in muggle slacks and jumper, to her eyes he stood out like a raven among peacocks. She squared her shoulders and approached the table.

"Mrs. Weasley," he intoned, rising from his chair.

Hermione rolled her eyes even as she reached for his hand. "Please, Severus. We've been beyond that for years now. I am Hermione, have been since my birth."

He tilted his head. "As you wish… Hermione. You look well."

Hermione laughed, and took her place at the table. "It's all relative, isn't it? I wouldn't say I feel well, but I am certainly better."

Severus Snape sat down as well. "Tell me." He said.

So she did.

Perhaps it was her resolution. Perhaps it was the way he truly listened to what she said. Either way, she found herself talking of her last few months with far more honesty than with anyone else. About how each morning was a swim through molasses just to make her front door. About the aching hole inside her chest, and the sharp guilt in the moments when the aching faded away. About her determination, no matter what the cost, to heal herself and have a life, a real life, without Ron.

He made no gestures, offered no platitudes. He didn't attempt to console her in any way. He simply sat there, his full attention upon her, his spy's eyes dark and unreadable.

At length, when she'd finished, she blew out a sigh of release. "Wow. You're better than veritaserum, do you know that Severus?"

Snape arched an eyebrow. "An intriguing compliment. You do realize, of course, that the feelings which you described to me during that lengthy monologue fall within the normal spectrum of the human grief process?"

Absurdly touched, Hermione chuckled. "Severus! Did you research the grief process for me?"

For a moment Severus looked a little like a boy with his hand in the cookie jar. But the moment faded when he shrugged an indolent shoulder. "When you proposed this meeting it seemed…prudent."

Hermione's smile softened. "Nonetheless, I'm honored."

At that moment, the waitstaff arrived with tea service for two. Snape gave a contemptuous snort. "I took the liberty of ordering your usual pot of flowers."

Hermione lifted the lid and inhaled the aroma. "Chamomile and lavender. You remembered."

Severus huffed. "You may think me an old man, but I am not so antiquated that I've lost my faculties. I assure you my memory is as sharp as it has ever been."

"I'm relieved to hear that. Then you will remember the letter you sent me after Ronald died."

He nodded. "I do indeed. I offered you my services should they be of use. I trust this meeting is because you find yourself in need of them?"

Hermione, mother of 3, wife of 25 years, was surprised to find herself blushing like a schoolgirl. She had no hopes that he'd fail to notice her flush; the man missed nothing. Even now, his vast intellect was probably piecing together her request, deducing what it was she was seeking from him. Perhaps he was clearing a path to that very conclusion even now. That thought cheered her somewhat, so she forged ahead.

Eyes firmly on her tea, she whispered, "I do." Knowing she must meet his eyes for what was to come next, she wrenched her gaze up to his. Unfortunately, she could not keep the agitation from her voice; she practically croaked as she said "Will you take me to your bed, Severus?"

She wasn't sure what she was expecting in that moment. Perhaps shock, possibly even revulsion. Certainly a demand for explanation and a request for the thought process that had brought her to her request. But he appeared coolly unruffled to her eyes. He seemed to consider her question for a moment, as he took a sip of his Darjeeling, and calmly replaced the cup onto its saucer. Then, his unfathomable eyes boring into hers, he nodded.

"Yes, Mrs. Weasley. If that is your wish, I will."

End, Chapter Two.

AN: Ha! When you're dealing with Severus Snape it's always best to expect the unexpected.

Thank you to those who reviewed the first chapter. I have some ideas of how I'd like this story to unfurl, but I am always open to your input. Special requests, anyone?


	3. Monsoon Rain

Hermione sat down in her favorite chair to watch the clock

Hermione sat down in her favorite chair to watch the clock. At 8 o'clock she was to apparate to Severus' house in Scotland. She was bathed and dressed and as ready as she'd ever be. That left her exactly half an hour to ponder the situation she was getting into.

At first, she'd been shocked by how calmly Severus had acquiesced to her request. It was as if she'd asked him for nothing more consequential than a sleeping draught from his stores.

But upon reflection, she'd begun to suspect that was not strictly accurate. A request for a potion would ha been met with a sarcastic comment or a snide aside. That extreme calm, well, she was betting that it had been a façade, some trick he'd learned in his years of dual servitude. Now, as to what the façade was hiding, she had no clue, but she was increasingly certain that something was brewing behind that shocking placidity.

Perhaps she could get him to talk to her about it. His loquacious moods were few and far between, but he did have them, and a deep conversation might smooth over the awkwardness she was certain would mire them at first.

She spent the remainder of her time allotment wondering what Severus' house would be like. Would it be comfortable, or austere? She knew he'd sold the hovel at Spinner's End that he hated so and replaced it with something "more suitable." But no one she knew had ever been there. To see what kind of shelter he'd chosen for himself, well, that alone was worth the price of admission.

At the appointed time, Hermione apparated to the point he'd described, a small road twisting across a wind-torn moor. His home was, of course, warded against any apparition save his own. So she'd have to travel the last half-mile on foot.

It was a lovely evening for it. Being near mid-summer, the sky was still full of light, and she found herself marveling at the grand beauty of the heathers against the pale sky. This wasn't the civilized green of English pastureland, but a wild, unfettered, unforgiving landscape. It seemed right that he would locate himself here of all places. This wasn't a beauty that soothed; it was a beauty that grabbed you by the throat. A very Severus approach, she thought. She smiled to herself and walked north.

In short order, the road crested to reveal Snape's home. Not an old manor, nor a quaint cottage, but a sleek, minimalist, modern home made of glass. Another surprise. But it made sense, really. After years in a dungeon, who could blame him for wanting a home filled with light and surrounded by beauty?

Feeling as if she'd learned more about him in ten minutes than in the last ten years of their acquaintance, she rapped the sleek S-Shaped doorknocker.

Sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

She was prepared for awkward conversation. She was prepared for pretending this was a normal visit between friends. She was prepared for all of the preparatory gestures men made when their intention was to bring a woman to their bed.

What she was not prepared for was for him to meet her at the door, wordlessly take her wrap, and then immediately begin to caress the skin on her arms with his long, skilled fingers. She was not prepared for the predatory light in his eyes, nor for her pulse to react as if she really were his prey.

Instinctively she recoiled, pulled away from him, struggling to reset her expectations. He moved with her, gently grasping high on her arms. He bent his hawkish face down to hers.

"Hermione," he said, in his silken voice, "Do you trust me?"

With all the blood in her body suddenly rushing in odd directions, she found she couldn't speak. Her eyes, however, did not waver as she nodded. She trusted him. Implicitly. That was why she'd sought out his attention, and his alone.

He seemed to understand, and nodded his satisfaction. He leaned closer to her ear and whispered, "Then give yourself to me."

It was as if he had clicked off a switch in her head. There was no more awkwardness, no reticence, no fear. She only received. Received the sensation of those fingers sliding over her arms, her neck, her face. Received his full lips as they traced the path of his fingers, not kissing, but simply trailing over every inch of her revealed skin. Received the faint sound as he inhaled the scent of her.

She received being lifted in his arms, only dimly aware of being deposited on the vast surface of his bed. When he removed her clothes, she received the chill of the air. It was neither pleasure nor pain, though it was mixed with both as he took her breast into his mouth, suckling harder than she'd thought she liked. He pulled on her, and pulled an answering ache deep within her, pulling sounds she didn't own from her mouth.

She was molten, floating, so full of pleasure that she felt no anxiety as she felt him shift on the bed, bring the silken heat of his own bare skin next to hers. She received him as he moved to her other breast, and in doing so, trailed his long hair across her chest. As he suckled, he placed one hand, cupped, against her core.

So much need pent up inside her. So much hunger. All it took was the warmth of his hand pressing against her and she was helplessly coming, coming with an intensity that scared her, as if at any moment she would burst apart.

When she finally came back into herself, she was first aware of Severus, holding her close and stroking her hair gently. The next thing she became aware of was that she was crying, messily, unattractively. Her body was still throbbing with aftershocks, even as she sobbed. It had more to do with relief than with sadness, but it had to be stopped. She reached for the control that she seemed to have left at the front door of this house, and found it to be a slippery thing, one she couldn't quite hold on to. What must Severus be thinking about all of this?

She lifted her tear-stained, swollen face to his and rasped, "I'm so sorry."

His fathomless eyes answered her, said…something…but she lost the message in her gasp as he finally lowered his mouth on to hers.

So…delicious. So soft and warm and strangely familiar to taste his mouth, taste the dark glory of him. She found herself moaning once again as he stroked her tongue with hers. She ground her body against his, glad to find incontrovertible proof that he was not unaffected by her.

He growled, buried his face in the bend between her neck and her shoulder. Hermione ran gentle hands down his back, while his hands went between them once again, this time entering her, one finger, and then another.

She was so surrendered to him that she didn't pull away when he sank his teeth into her shoulder, gently at first, with increasing pressure. With his teeth in her flesh, he took her all the way to her limit, and then, as she felt she could take no more, he whispered to her with his melted chocolate voice. "Trust me."

She relaxed, and felt herself cross over from pain into aching pleasure. And as she did, he replaced his fingers with his cock, and pushed into her, hard, and full and deep. Everything became slow-motion, a cascade of sensation.

She smelled him. She tasted the salt of his skin. She watched as their bodies moved apart and together. She felt him, stretching her, filling her. She ground against him, felt the shudder run through his body, and felt beautiful, and powerful, and gloriously alive.

He smiled at her, the first real smile she'd ever seen on his face, and flipped them over, so that she was astride. She set the pace, ground against him, finding her rhythm. After over a year of abstinence, her body required very little encouragement to settle into another steep build.

He watched her closely, and just when she crossed the line of inevitability, he took over. He dug his fingers into her hips, and moved her against him so hard that her control shattered. She lost herself in his rhythm, so brutal, so carnal that she was shaking and shivering and convulsively coming long after he had barked out his own horse call of release.

She collapsed on top of him, quivering, her breath ragged, her newly awakened brain struggling to grasp and categorize the experience. Sex with Ronald had never been…like that. She felt a little like she'd set a match to a firecracker and got an atomic bomb instead. She giggled at the thought, which caused him to raise a sardonic eyebrow.

He rumbled, low in his chest, "What interesting reactions you have to sexual intercourse, Hermione. What type of catharsis should I expect next?"

She chortled some more, and stretched her suddenly glorious body from fingers to toes. She ran a hand across the slick surface of his scarred body. His eyes had gone closed again, and his focus was elsewhere.

"Sickle for your thoughts?"

Severus' swollen and red lips turned up in the barest of smiles. "My body is at your disposal…My thoughts, however, remain my own."

Hermione sighed. "Figured you'd say something like that. Guess intimate pillow talk would be out of the question."

He smirked. "If you wish intimate pillow talk," he said, lowering his silken voice, "then let me tell you what I'm going to do to you next."

End Chapter Three

AN: I didn't make you wait for lemons. Go ahead, tell me I'm a good SS/HG provider! ;)


	4. Behind the Facade

Severus Snape closed the door behind her, and allowed himself a smile of satisfaction

Severus Snape closed the door behind her, and allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. It had been selfish, yes, and self-serving to accept her plea for help. Once it was offered him, he could no longer deny that he'd always felt a, a _preference_, for young Mr. Weasley's bride.

Never would he have gone to her, taken advantage of her vulnerable state. He was a morally flexible man, but even he found that idea repulsive. He wasn't, however, so scrupled as to deny himself the coveted fruit when it dropped from the tree and into his waiting hands.

And what a fruit it had been. He inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring to take in the remnants of her scent. She'd come to him, not drenched in some artificial perfume, but redolent with her own unique pheromones. It was infinitely more attractive to him, exquisite to smell the small shifts in her arousal. It augmented his experience to have this further proof of her surrender to his touch. She was real, this witch. In a lifetime full of pretense and subterfuge, she was a blast of truth. The desire to possess that truth was overwhelming.

She was so responsive to him, so eager. He was not so egotistical as to believe that her reactions were for him specifically. She'd been parched when she'd arrived, gripped by a thirst that was bone-shattering. He'd simply been the torrent that had fallen upon her. But now that she was in his bed, that would change. He would make her long for him, see to it that she never sought another for her drink.

Severus snorted, preparing himself a fine cup of strong tea. It shouldn't be too difficult. Apparently young Weasley had been as unimaginative in bed as he'd been in the classroom…and thankfully, Hermione's curiosity was as broad as her husband's had been narrow.

Of course, keeping her satisfied in bed was going to be the easier task. His skills in that area were varied, and his natural gifts, he'd been told, were exceptional. He'd have no problem keeping the witch satisfied.

Out of bed, well, he had no misperceptions about the paucity of his social skills. Still, she seemed to have affection for him, even in his true state. The fact that she'd never before had a partner who could equal her intellectual curiosity would surely be in his favor. A little effort on his part, and he should be able to at least approximate the behaviors of a suitable mate.

He, Severus Snape, a husband. He tilted his head back and laughed out loud. He'd been set in his ways for too long. How satisfying to realize that life had surprises left for him after all.

Smile on his face, tea in his cup, Severus sat down to watch the wind ripple across the moors. For now, all he had to do was wait.

End, Chapter Four

AN: Wanted to know what was going on in Snape's head? Now you know!


End file.
